A new day, a new rash. This one starts at my hips and spreads downward, mostly ending at my knees but with a few intrepid explorers reaching the tops of my feet.
What the hell am I reacting to?
Last night we had green bean casserole and mac & cheese for dinner. (Yes, I know...terribly nutritious. It was fast and easy, okay?) I paired mine with unsweetened applesauce and Ovaltine. So tomatoes are apparently exonerated, but wheat, dairy, and chocolate are still on the chopping block. And I am left with the decision to either take Benadryl and drag all day or skip it and suffer.
Actually, that's not entirely true. There's a third option. I just took some Allegra. Allegra tends to give me migraines, but you know what? Today that doesn't sound so bad.
I am so very tired of itching. But I am also tired of being tired. I have things to do. Also, it's supposed to be warmer today -- I'd planned on taking the kids to the park.
More than anything, I'm tired of my allergies.
Earlier, Anya pointed to a picture in her coloring book. "Can I have a pet?" she asked, enunciating carefully.
"Oh, honey, you know Mommy is allergic to dogs and cats," I told her. "Their fur makes Mommy sick."
"I know," she said. "But what about a lizard? Do lizards make your nose itch?"
"Well, I don't know. I don't think so. We'll talk about it when you're older." (I'm not really a fan of lizards.)
I can always tell when she really wants something when she takes extra pains in her pronunciation. The only word she didn't say perfectly was "lizard"; it came out more like "lih-ard." Pretty darn close, especially for her. I'm not really a pet person, but when she tries that hard, I wish I could be.
With the way my allergies are going, though, I'm really not willing to take the chance.
Showing posts with label apraxia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label apraxia. Show all posts
Friday, January 15, 2016
Friday, December 18, 2015
Why Santa is bringing my son a doll for Christmas
Having kids has made me super sensitive to the things people say and do. The word "retarded," for example, grates my nerves worse than ever now. I know Anya's apraxia isn't exactly a huge developmental delay, and her speech is getting better all the time, but the fact is I've spent the past few years getting funny looks from strangers because my daughter is big for her age yet has the speech capabilities of a younger child. I want to slap people who use "retarded" to describe a long line or an irritating coworker or a new sitcom. Words can hurt.
I'm not innocent of the casual slurs, either. I tend to cast aspersions on the size of a man's genitalia based on the speed with which he departs from an intersection, and I have said "because he's a man" in response to questions about why my partner/my father/some random male acts against a woman's wishes. I'm trying hard to clean up my language.*
And yes, there are differences between men and women. Duh. But there is a difference between noting these differences and male bashing. Just as I am even more of a feminist since I gave birth to a daughter, I am ever sensitive to negative male stereotypes since I gave birth to a son.
I am not one for strict gender stereotypes, obviously. I am the breadwinner and the major decision maker in my household. My partner has long hair, and his favorite article of clothing is a skirt -- a manly skirt, but a skirt. So, you know, we're not all he-man/girly girl around here.
But I'm not sure how he (or the rest of the males in our family) will like the fact that I bought his son a doll for Christmas.
Look, the boy loves dolls. And his sister is not sharing hers. Most of her dolls are for ages 2+, anyway. So when he found a doll for babies while we were shopping for his sister, I bought it. It's cute -- a soft-bodied doll with a rattle in it. It's even kind of unisex -- instead of being dressed in pink, it's "wearing" an orange sleeper. And when he saw it, his little face lit up. So Santa got it for him, and anyone who can't deal with that can just take it up with Mama Bear here.
I am not planning on wearing a different parenting hat for my son than I do for my daughter. My goal is to raise children who are kind, honest, responsible people who are proud of who they are and who never feel ashamed to come to me about anything. That's a pretty universal message, I think -- no need for color coding. I do not believe that "boys will be boys" is a viable excuse for obnoxious, immoral, or dangerous behavior. The only thing I think not having a penis truly prevents my daughter from doing is writing her name in the snow without messing up her shoes. Sexual consent is not a lesson that only my daughter needs to learn; I don't want either of my children to rape or be raped.
And there's more. Always more. A million little assumptions and stereotypes and prejudices that make up our everyday experience. Each day I uncover another one.
I expect my son to do more around the house than earn a paycheck and do yard work. And if he provides me with grandchildren, I fully expect him to do his fair share of child care. Dolls allow children to pretend to care for a baby. So why shouldn't my son play with one?
If I don't teach my children to buy in to the sexist rhetoric I grew up with, perhaps they will have the chance to overcome it.
At the very least, if I can deal gracefully with the blowback from making unpopular decisions, I will be providing them an example of how to be true to themselves in the face of adversity.
*I am, in fact, far more concerned about slips like this than I am the occasional (or not so occasional) f-bomb. If the worst thing to come out of my child's mouth is the word "fuck," well, I'll take that as a sign that I win as a mother.
I'm not innocent of the casual slurs, either. I tend to cast aspersions on the size of a man's genitalia based on the speed with which he departs from an intersection, and I have said "because he's a man" in response to questions about why my partner/my father/some random male acts against a woman's wishes. I'm trying hard to clean up my language.*
And yes, there are differences between men and women. Duh. But there is a difference between noting these differences and male bashing. Just as I am even more of a feminist since I gave birth to a daughter, I am ever sensitive to negative male stereotypes since I gave birth to a son.
I am not one for strict gender stereotypes, obviously. I am the breadwinner and the major decision maker in my household. My partner has long hair, and his favorite article of clothing is a skirt -- a manly skirt, but a skirt. So, you know, we're not all he-man/girly girl around here.
But I'm not sure how he (or the rest of the males in our family) will like the fact that I bought his son a doll for Christmas.
Look, the boy loves dolls. And his sister is not sharing hers. Most of her dolls are for ages 2+, anyway. So when he found a doll for babies while we were shopping for his sister, I bought it. It's cute -- a soft-bodied doll with a rattle in it. It's even kind of unisex -- instead of being dressed in pink, it's "wearing" an orange sleeper. And when he saw it, his little face lit up. So Santa got it for him, and anyone who can't deal with that can just take it up with Mama Bear here.
I am not planning on wearing a different parenting hat for my son than I do for my daughter. My goal is to raise children who are kind, honest, responsible people who are proud of who they are and who never feel ashamed to come to me about anything. That's a pretty universal message, I think -- no need for color coding. I do not believe that "boys will be boys" is a viable excuse for obnoxious, immoral, or dangerous behavior. The only thing I think not having a penis truly prevents my daughter from doing is writing her name in the snow without messing up her shoes. Sexual consent is not a lesson that only my daughter needs to learn; I don't want either of my children to rape or be raped.
And there's more. Always more. A million little assumptions and stereotypes and prejudices that make up our everyday experience. Each day I uncover another one.
I expect my son to do more around the house than earn a paycheck and do yard work. And if he provides me with grandchildren, I fully expect him to do his fair share of child care. Dolls allow children to pretend to care for a baby. So why shouldn't my son play with one?
If I don't teach my children to buy in to the sexist rhetoric I grew up with, perhaps they will have the chance to overcome it.
At the very least, if I can deal gracefully with the blowback from making unpopular decisions, I will be providing them an example of how to be true to themselves in the face of adversity.
*I am, in fact, far more concerned about slips like this than I am the occasional (or not so occasional) f-bomb. If the worst thing to come out of my child's mouth is the word "fuck," well, I'll take that as a sign that I win as a mother.
Thursday, December 3, 2015
My little mirror
My daughter is speaking more, and more clearly, than ever. To my delight and horror, depending upon what comes out of her mouth. Because it's almost all me. Oh, there's some Daddy in there, and Mimi and Poppy, and a fair sprinkling of Hobby Kids. But most of it is me. And I'm not always pretty.
But sometimes she moves me to tears, man.
Like last night. Mimi and I were going shopping after work, and it was for Anya, so of course Anya could not go. But I couldn't tell her that, because Santa/childhood magic things. So I was upfront, but vague: "Mommy has to go somewhere with Mimi and run errands. I'll be back soon. You need to stay here, because reasons."
She was cool at first -- one lone tear, which is downright stoic for my living anime character. But then she called me into the bedroom. Patted the bed and told me to sit.
"Listen. Listen, Mom."
I smiled. "I'm listening."
"Remember that time when you went [somewhere...I didn't catch that part]? Remember? When you were gone?"
"Yes, baby. Mommy hates to leave you, but every so often, Mommy has to. I'll bring you a treat when I come back, though."
She put her hands on my cheeks and looked deep into my eyes. "I missed you, Mom. Really missed you. Don't go. Stay here and play with me."
No tears, no yelling, no lashing out. Just simple, quiet, rational discourse. From my 4-year-old. About how she can't bear to be away from me -- even with the promise of a treat.
Note that she wasn't begging to go. She wasn't objecting to being left behind; she was objecting to being away from me. Nothing like a coating of Mommy Guilt to make an outing complete.
And she did it not by using my worst behavior against me, but my best. The mommy I wish I always were: Calm, gentle, thoughtful.
Oh, Santa was good to her last night. Yes, indeedy.
But sometimes she moves me to tears, man.
Like last night. Mimi and I were going shopping after work, and it was for Anya, so of course Anya could not go. But I couldn't tell her that, because Santa/childhood magic things. So I was upfront, but vague: "Mommy has to go somewhere with Mimi and run errands. I'll be back soon. You need to stay here, because reasons."
She was cool at first -- one lone tear, which is downright stoic for my living anime character. But then she called me into the bedroom. Patted the bed and told me to sit.
"Listen. Listen, Mom."
I smiled. "I'm listening."
"Remember that time when you went [somewhere...I didn't catch that part]? Remember? When you were gone?"
"Yes, baby. Mommy hates to leave you, but every so often, Mommy has to. I'll bring you a treat when I come back, though."
She put her hands on my cheeks and looked deep into my eyes. "I missed you, Mom. Really missed you. Don't go. Stay here and play with me."
No tears, no yelling, no lashing out. Just simple, quiet, rational discourse. From my 4-year-old. About how she can't bear to be away from me -- even with the promise of a treat.
Note that she wasn't begging to go. She wasn't objecting to being left behind; she was objecting to being away from me. Nothing like a coating of Mommy Guilt to make an outing complete.
And she did it not by using my worst behavior against me, but my best. The mommy I wish I always were: Calm, gentle, thoughtful.
Oh, Santa was good to her last night. Yes, indeedy.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
My big girl
Anya keeps telling me she's a big girl. Usually the context is something she wants to do without help that I don't want her to do without help, like making me a cup of tea -- real, almost-boiling tea, not tea-party tea -- or changing her brother's poopy diaper. (Seriously...where did I get this kid? She is sweet beyond words. But also, ay yi yi. If she's this independent now, her teen years will be the death of me.)
She has little-baby moments. Where she wants to be picked up and cuddled and coddled and taken care of. No problem. I can do that. It's hard to believe that as recently as this past February, she looked and acted like -- and was -- a toddler. My baby girl. Round cheeks and pudgy belly and cuddles. And now...now she is a child. A preschooler. All long legs and maturity and helpfulness.
She holds conversations. She introduces herself and her entire family to parents in stores. She never fails to ask how you're doing, and will inquire about illnesses and injuries if she knows you've had them. She compliments your clothes and asks where you got them. She wants to know everyone's name. (If no name is provided, she dubs he/she/it Chocolate Candy Cane. No, I don't know why.) Her enunciation is getting better; strangers can understand much of what she says now, with little translation from me.
My baby girl is still in there. She still tantrums. Still pouts when she doesn't get her way. She wants my lap and her Mimi's lap all to herself. Still needs to rub my earlobe as she falls asleep. There are growing pains, and new-sibling pains; she liked being the doted-upon baby, and sometimes resents the interloper (though he is "cute-cute") and the expectation that she be more mature now. She lashes out, acts up, goes "purple Minion." But she also rubs my back when I am tired. Talks soothingly to me when I start to lose it. Sings to her brother when he's teething, and makes him laugh when he's cranky. Helps me clean house on Saturday morning.
My big girl.
She has little-baby moments. Where she wants to be picked up and cuddled and coddled and taken care of. No problem. I can do that. It's hard to believe that as recently as this past February, she looked and acted like -- and was -- a toddler. My baby girl. Round cheeks and pudgy belly and cuddles. And now...now she is a child. A preschooler. All long legs and maturity and helpfulness.
She holds conversations. She introduces herself and her entire family to parents in stores. She never fails to ask how you're doing, and will inquire about illnesses and injuries if she knows you've had them. She compliments your clothes and asks where you got them. She wants to know everyone's name. (If no name is provided, she dubs he/she/it Chocolate Candy Cane. No, I don't know why.) Her enunciation is getting better; strangers can understand much of what she says now, with little translation from me.
My baby girl is still in there. She still tantrums. Still pouts when she doesn't get her way. She wants my lap and her Mimi's lap all to herself. Still needs to rub my earlobe as she falls asleep. There are growing pains, and new-sibling pains; she liked being the doted-upon baby, and sometimes resents the interloper (though he is "cute-cute") and the expectation that she be more mature now. She lashes out, acts up, goes "purple Minion." But she also rubs my back when I am tired. Talks soothingly to me when I start to lose it. Sings to her brother when he's teething, and makes him laugh when he's cranky. Helps me clean house on Saturday morning.
My big girl.
Sunday, May 17, 2015
Home making
My daughter's language skills improve more and more each day. Lately she has been focused on classifications: boys/girls, old/new, the color (preferably pink!) and size (tiny babies, biiiiig ice creams) of things. One of the things she specifies is whose house she wants to be at -- usually it's Mimi's house, but sometimes it is Anya's house.
The way she says that, Anya's house, resonates with me. However temporary I feel about the house we rent (I was hoping we'd have bought a house by now, but it looks like that goal is a few years off yet), it is the only home she has ever known. It's her whole childhood. The center of her universe. I should do what I can to make it nice.
So that's my new goal (in addition to adapting to life with two kids and finding my abs under all this postpregnancy sag): Making this house a home.
The way she says that, Anya's house, resonates with me. However temporary I feel about the house we rent (I was hoping we'd have bought a house by now, but it looks like that goal is a few years off yet), it is the only home she has ever known. It's her whole childhood. The center of her universe. I should do what I can to make it nice.
So that's my new goal (in addition to adapting to life with two kids and finding my abs under all this postpregnancy sag): Making this house a home.
Friday, February 20, 2015
We are what we say
Something I have learned from my daughter's struggles with apraxia is the importance of words. Talk is cheap, they say...but not when every syllable is a struggle. Then, each word carries immeasurable weight. Of all the things she doesn't say, these are the words she felt important enough to force through the veil rather than try to approximate them with pantomime or simply leave them unsaid.
What these words show me is that my daughter is a beautiful soul, full of love and goodwill.
Also fiercely independent, stubborn, and, well, three.
But it's an amazing look inside a mind that has been such a mystery to me.
Some of these words are clear as day. Others require an interpreter. For instance, my parents thought she was asking for "Dew" (Mountain Dew) the other day -- not an unreasonable assumption, as it is her father's favorite drink. But we don't call it that in front of her; we call it soda. And while she likes it, it's not her beverage of choice. What she was saying was "juice." So even among those close to her, some interpretation is still required. Still, progress is being made.
One thing I find interesting is her grasp of and insistence upon adjectives. It's not just enough to let us know she is going poopy -- it's important we know that it is a biiiiig poopy. She wants ice in her water (tiny ice -- no big cubes, please), and prefers my peppermint tea once it's gone cold. It's not enough that the TV is on -- she wants to watch her shows, not ours. She is not asking about any old puppy, but the yippy dog that lives two doors down. This precision speaks to a strong desire for understanding. And for someone who not so long ago referred to every adult relative as "Dada," it demonstrates massive steps forward in her verbal abilities.
Lately, I've noticed increased effort from her in crafting phrases and sentences. The ones she's repeating from rote memory roll off her tongue with ease: "Hi, Mommy!" "Hi, baby!" "Where you going?" "What you doing?" And like most toddlers, there are the mangled misunderstandings: "Uppy-go" (for "Up you go") is her way of asking to be picked up. But there are others -- phrases and sentences that she has put together on her own. Slowly and carefully enunciated utterances that are pure Anya:
And my absolute favorite, all the more so for the care and deliberation taken to make three halting words come out clearly: Love you, Mommy.
I waited so long to hear those words. It was worth every second.
What these words show me is that my daughter is a beautiful soul, full of love and goodwill.
Also fiercely independent, stubborn, and, well, three.
But it's an amazing look inside a mind that has been such a mystery to me.
Me: When you were a baby...
Anya: No.
Me: You were a baby.
A: No.
Me: I have photographic evidence.
A: No.
— Nicole (@nmb74) February 8, 2015
Anya: "Mimi nice. Poppy nice. Mommy nice. Daddy nice." Aw...we try.
— Nicole (@nmb74) February 7, 2015
Helped Anya install a puzzle game I thought was too advanced for her. She solved it in seconds and declared it "boring." What do I know?
— Nicole (@nmb74) January 19, 2015
Frequent topics of conversation include:- Family: What Mimi doing? What Poppy doing? What Daddy doing? What baby doing?
- Pets she has encountered: What tiny puppy doing? What kitty doing?
- Food and drink: chockie (chocolate milk) and cuppies (cupcakes) are favorite requests, as are ice water, cold tea, and cheese
- Cherished belongings: tabby (her tablet), bows and balm (hair bows and lip balm...she's a girly girl), boots, balls (she has enough to open a sports store)
- Play: outside, game, hide eyes (hide and seek), my TT (she wants to watch her Netflix account on TV, not boring grown-up stuff)
Some of these words are clear as day. Others require an interpreter. For instance, my parents thought she was asking for "Dew" (Mountain Dew) the other day -- not an unreasonable assumption, as it is her father's favorite drink. But we don't call it that in front of her; we call it soda. And while she likes it, it's not her beverage of choice. What she was saying was "juice." So even among those close to her, some interpretation is still required. Still, progress is being made.
One thing I find interesting is her grasp of and insistence upon adjectives. It's not just enough to let us know she is going poopy -- it's important we know that it is a biiiiig poopy. She wants ice in her water (tiny ice -- no big cubes, please), and prefers my peppermint tea once it's gone cold. It's not enough that the TV is on -- she wants to watch her shows, not ours. She is not asking about any old puppy, but the yippy dog that lives two doors down. This precision speaks to a strong desire for understanding. And for someone who not so long ago referred to every adult relative as "Dada," it demonstrates massive steps forward in her verbal abilities.
Lately, I've noticed increased effort from her in crafting phrases and sentences. The ones she's repeating from rote memory roll off her tongue with ease: "Hi, Mommy!" "Hi, baby!" "Where you going?" "What you doing?" And like most toddlers, there are the mangled misunderstandings: "Uppy-go" (for "Up you go") is her way of asking to be picked up. But there are others -- phrases and sentences that she has put together on her own. Slowly and carefully enunciated utterances that are pure Anya:
- Not night! (Said with glee each and every weekend morning. Usually followed by an equally happy observation that I am awake: Eyes open!)
- Big boobies! (I'm 36 weeks pregnant, so...yeah. Also Tiny boobies!, directed at her own chest.)
- I do! (She is, I believe I've mentioned, fiercely independent.)
- She introduces herself and her family to everyone we meet: I Anya. (Holds up three fingers. Then points to me.) My mommy. (Points to my belly.) My baby.
- Working to figure out gender differences: Mimi tights? Mommy tights? Anya tights? Poppy tights? Daddy tights? (My mother's been wearing a lot of tights and skirts lately.)
- Go Poppy's house? (She would live with my parents if she could.)
- Mommy work. Daddy work. Mimi work. Anya stay Poppy house. (Said at the end of my lunch hour, when she wants us to go away so she and Poppy can play.)
- Whenever she is referred to by an endearment (Baby, Goosey Lucy, Love Bug, etc): No, I Anya. (Interestingly enough, she allows the nicknames her father and I use: Angel, Bear, Goofball)
And my absolute favorite, all the more so for the care and deliberation taken to make three halting words come out clearly: Love you, Mommy.
I waited so long to hear those words. It was worth every second.
Thursday, November 13, 2014
Helping my child find her words
I've known for a while that my daughter has trouble communicating verbally. If I were totally honest with myself, I've known something was up since she was a baby, and called me "Mumma" instead of "Mama." Babies say Mama. It's in all the books. But I thought it was cute, and chalked it up to the amount of BBC we watch.
Plus, she did say a few words early. Once, when she was 4 or 5 months old, as I kissed her goodbye to go to work she said, "Bye-bye, Mumma." She never said them again. But I was just amazed that she said them in the first place.
Still, though, when she started calling everyone, including me, "Dada," I should have spoken up. But my pride was wounded. I carried her in my body. I was the one who walked the floor with her for hours, until the pain from my c-section incision made me cry, when she had colic. I was the one who couldn't be parted from her for a few hours, let alone overnight. I upended my life for her, and she called me Dada.
Eventually, she did start calling me Mumma again, so I relaxed. But she didn't say much else. Her father was a late talker, though, so I let it slide.
For about three years.
There were signs, of course, that something was amiss. Doctors spoke to her like she could respond. (Why are you asking her? I'd think. She's a baby. She can't tell you.) A study we participated in diagnosed her with a verbal delay of a year or better. Kids in stores -- younger kids -- would talk to her in complete, coherent sentences. But Anya was silent.
Not that she couldn't understand us. She understood every word we said, sometimes when I wished she couldn't. Spelling words out in front of her didn't even work; she learned very quickly what C-A-N-D-Y and N-A-P spell. But she mostly communicated with us using gestures and grunts.
She's an only child, I told myself. Surrounded by doting adults. She doesn't talk because she doesn't have to.
She's been an overachiever and a perfectionist pretty much since birth (oh, the temper tantrums she threw while she was learning to roll over!), so I figured she was waiting until she knew she could speak perfectly before she even tried to speak. That she'd start out talking in complete, grammatically correct sentences.
They say Einstein was a late talker.
Still, red flags were starting to go up. Strangers were starting to treat her like she had some sort of developmental delay. Or worse, like she was just a brat. Other kids would shy away from her, sensing something was up. She started throwing tantrums when she couldn't make us understand her.
She's tall for her age. People are judgmental assholes. Those kids' parents took the "stranger danger" thing a bit too far. Toddlers throw tantrums all the time.
Then we concluded the study, and the researchers urged me to get her into speech therapy. The words "special education" were bandied about.
Stupid scientists. Kids are not machines; they develop at different rates. She's so advanced in other areas. So what if she's slow to talk? Her father learned how to talk without any special intervention, and now you can hardly shut him up.
But I couldn't ignore it any longer. My child was nearly 3, and just...didn't talk.
Also distressing to me was her attitude towards books. I've read to her since she was in utero. When she was a baby, she loved it. She'd listen to me read four, five, six books in a row, those bright, alert eyes never leaving my face. But as she got older, she started shying away from books. Then outwardly disliking them. Not just books, either. Flash cards, coloring books...anything and everything bearing the printed word elicited anything from disinterest to an outright tantrum.
I started speaking at 6 months. I learned to read at 3. I wrote my first story at 7. In high school, I wrote thousands of pages of fiction (all crap, but still). I've worked as a writer and editor since I was 25. I read Kindle books while I walk, even after editing for 10+ hours a day. Words are my thing.
I do not understand why my child tantrums at the suggestion of snuggling up with her mother and being read to. But she does. I do not understand how my child can say a word once, then be unable to repeat those same sounds, but it happens all the time. And it's terrifying.
So I made an appointment with a speech therapist, and she was diagnosed with childhood apraxia of speech. Which basically means that while she has a vocabulary of hundreds, thousands of words, she doesn't say them because she has trouble remembering how to make the sounds.
I had never even heard of this issue before, but the diagnosis fit. She was talking a little more, but still tended to call everything "dat" (like she used to call all of the adults in her family "Dada"). The words she would actually say were more rote phrases (Mumma, Daddy, please, thank you, welcome, bye-bye, bless you) that she'd heard us say a thousand times; however, though she mimicked our inflections perfectly, she usually garbled the enunciation: "please" became "eese" and "thank you" became "dank oo." When she attempted spontaneous speech, it came out as gibberish.
Still, it wasn't an easy diagnosis to swallow. We really couldn't afford the therapy, and I'd just found out I was pregnant, to boot. But could I sit idly by, knowing what I now knew? Would she ever speak normally? Would the world ever see her as I see her -- sweet, brilliant, kind, fierce, beautiful -- or would they just see her as "special," with all its stomach-churning implications?
Part of me was tempted to just work with her myself. I am a communicator. I have two college degrees that say I know my way around the English language. Plus, I'm intelligent; I can read up on this stuff, the theories and techniques and strategies. Nobody is more motivated to help my child than me. But I still had that nagging doubt: What if therapy were the only thing standing between her and a "normal" life?
So despite my misgivings, she began twice-weekly speech therapy. And at first it was wonderful. She really clicked with her therapist, and looked forward to sessions. She didn't seem to be making a huge amount of progress, but enough that I couldn't justify quitting.
Then her therapist left the clinic, and we went through a series of substitutes until a new one was hired. But these sessions rarely went smoothly. She just didn't seem to click with these other therapists, any of them. She began dreading the sessions, and throwing tantrums that wasted most of the allotted time. Even more worrying was that she seemed to be backsliding -- losing words she'd acquired, and resisting our efforts to get her to talk. Finally, I couldn't justify the expense any more. Financial hardship that leads to improvements is one thing. Financial hardship that seems to actively be doing harm is stupid. I cancelled her standing appointments.
And then the most amazing thing happened: She blossomed. Overnight, it seems. Every day, she talks more and more, and the words are clearer and clearer each time. Not just single words, either, but complete sentences. Grammatically correct ones. It's still a little fuzzy around the edges, but it's speech -- speech that is in many ways more advanced than her peers.
Not that she doesn't still have some issues. Consonant clusters are hard for her: the lk in milk, for instance, and the pl in please. She usually just drops these syllables. But we're working on it. And she's working on it. It still comes as a shock when she comes up to me and starts talking; after all this time, it's incredible for me to finally know what's going on behind those gray eyes of hers. To hear her sweet voice. There is no sound more beautiful than that.
Such a wonderful feeling, to finally have a conversation with my daughter.
Plus, she did say a few words early. Once, when she was 4 or 5 months old, as I kissed her goodbye to go to work she said, "Bye-bye, Mumma." She never said them again. But I was just amazed that she said them in the first place.
Still, though, when she started calling everyone, including me, "Dada," I should have spoken up. But my pride was wounded. I carried her in my body. I was the one who walked the floor with her for hours, until the pain from my c-section incision made me cry, when she had colic. I was the one who couldn't be parted from her for a few hours, let alone overnight. I upended my life for her, and she called me Dada.
Eventually, she did start calling me Mumma again, so I relaxed. But she didn't say much else. Her father was a late talker, though, so I let it slide.
For about three years.
There were signs, of course, that something was amiss. Doctors spoke to her like she could respond. (Why are you asking her? I'd think. She's a baby. She can't tell you.) A study we participated in diagnosed her with a verbal delay of a year or better. Kids in stores -- younger kids -- would talk to her in complete, coherent sentences. But Anya was silent.
Not that she couldn't understand us. She understood every word we said, sometimes when I wished she couldn't. Spelling words out in front of her didn't even work; she learned very quickly what C-A-N-D-Y and N-A-P spell. But she mostly communicated with us using gestures and grunts.
She's an only child, I told myself. Surrounded by doting adults. She doesn't talk because she doesn't have to.
She's been an overachiever and a perfectionist pretty much since birth (oh, the temper tantrums she threw while she was learning to roll over!), so I figured she was waiting until she knew she could speak perfectly before she even tried to speak. That she'd start out talking in complete, grammatically correct sentences.
They say Einstein was a late talker.
Still, red flags were starting to go up. Strangers were starting to treat her like she had some sort of developmental delay. Or worse, like she was just a brat. Other kids would shy away from her, sensing something was up. She started throwing tantrums when she couldn't make us understand her.
She's tall for her age. People are judgmental assholes. Those kids' parents took the "stranger danger" thing a bit too far. Toddlers throw tantrums all the time.
Then we concluded the study, and the researchers urged me to get her into speech therapy. The words "special education" were bandied about.
Stupid scientists. Kids are not machines; they develop at different rates. She's so advanced in other areas. So what if she's slow to talk? Her father learned how to talk without any special intervention, and now you can hardly shut him up.
But I couldn't ignore it any longer. My child was nearly 3, and just...didn't talk.
Also distressing to me was her attitude towards books. I've read to her since she was in utero. When she was a baby, she loved it. She'd listen to me read four, five, six books in a row, those bright, alert eyes never leaving my face. But as she got older, she started shying away from books. Then outwardly disliking them. Not just books, either. Flash cards, coloring books...anything and everything bearing the printed word elicited anything from disinterest to an outright tantrum.
I started speaking at 6 months. I learned to read at 3. I wrote my first story at 7. In high school, I wrote thousands of pages of fiction (all crap, but still). I've worked as a writer and editor since I was 25. I read Kindle books while I walk, even after editing for 10+ hours a day. Words are my thing.
I do not understand why my child tantrums at the suggestion of snuggling up with her mother and being read to. But she does. I do not understand how my child can say a word once, then be unable to repeat those same sounds, but it happens all the time. And it's terrifying.
So I made an appointment with a speech therapist, and she was diagnosed with childhood apraxia of speech. Which basically means that while she has a vocabulary of hundreds, thousands of words, she doesn't say them because she has trouble remembering how to make the sounds.
I had never even heard of this issue before, but the diagnosis fit. She was talking a little more, but still tended to call everything "dat" (like she used to call all of the adults in her family "Dada"). The words she would actually say were more rote phrases (Mumma, Daddy, please, thank you, welcome, bye-bye, bless you) that she'd heard us say a thousand times; however, though she mimicked our inflections perfectly, she usually garbled the enunciation: "please" became "eese" and "thank you" became "dank oo." When she attempted spontaneous speech, it came out as gibberish.
Still, it wasn't an easy diagnosis to swallow. We really couldn't afford the therapy, and I'd just found out I was pregnant, to boot. But could I sit idly by, knowing what I now knew? Would she ever speak normally? Would the world ever see her as I see her -- sweet, brilliant, kind, fierce, beautiful -- or would they just see her as "special," with all its stomach-churning implications?
Part of me was tempted to just work with her myself. I am a communicator. I have two college degrees that say I know my way around the English language. Plus, I'm intelligent; I can read up on this stuff, the theories and techniques and strategies. Nobody is more motivated to help my child than me. But I still had that nagging doubt: What if therapy were the only thing standing between her and a "normal" life?
So despite my misgivings, she began twice-weekly speech therapy. And at first it was wonderful. She really clicked with her therapist, and looked forward to sessions. She didn't seem to be making a huge amount of progress, but enough that I couldn't justify quitting.
Then her therapist left the clinic, and we went through a series of substitutes until a new one was hired. But these sessions rarely went smoothly. She just didn't seem to click with these other therapists, any of them. She began dreading the sessions, and throwing tantrums that wasted most of the allotted time. Even more worrying was that she seemed to be backsliding -- losing words she'd acquired, and resisting our efforts to get her to talk. Finally, I couldn't justify the expense any more. Financial hardship that leads to improvements is one thing. Financial hardship that seems to actively be doing harm is stupid. I cancelled her standing appointments.
And then the most amazing thing happened: She blossomed. Overnight, it seems. Every day, she talks more and more, and the words are clearer and clearer each time. Not just single words, either, but complete sentences. Grammatically correct ones. It's still a little fuzzy around the edges, but it's speech -- speech that is in many ways more advanced than her peers.
Not that she doesn't still have some issues. Consonant clusters are hard for her: the lk in milk, for instance, and the pl in please. She usually just drops these syllables. But we're working on it. And she's working on it. It still comes as a shock when she comes up to me and starts talking; after all this time, it's incredible for me to finally know what's going on behind those gray eyes of hers. To hear her sweet voice. There is no sound more beautiful than that.
Such a wonderful feeling, to finally have a conversation with my daughter.
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